strange confort can be found,

spending time in bed, with yourself.

your thoughts,

your ideas and dreams,

when you lay on the matress,

they all florish inside,

like a flower in the spring.

to exist,

with no reason,

to exist,

with no meaning,

to exist.

to simply exist,

is to suffer.

under the rain,

only then my tears will be hidden,

disguised as simple drops of water,

that way, they will have meaning.

to water the plants,

to make life bloom.

maybe i will find purpose in death...

my corpse? food to the maggots,

fertiliser to the soil.

then, and only then,

i shall find meaning.